The day of Frederick's necessary departure arrived, and all three Hales were quiet with the looming sense of loss which would strike again, not three days after Mrs Hale's death. Gone were Frederick's tears, for now that he knew he had to leave, and keep his wits about him (if he were to evade the navy and the likes of Leonards) he was all purpose, and a stubborn male bravado at having allowed himself to have been so thoroughly felled by his mother's death. In contrast, now that Frederick was no longer in the throes on unrestrained grief, Margaret's strength faltered, and she descended into brief fits of sobbing. Mr Hale was simply anxious for his son's departure, and sat watching the clock as the hour grew darker, and the moment of Frederick's slipping from the safe confines of the Crampton house, drew nearer.

'You will go with your brother, will you not, Margaret?' asked Mr Hale, in a pitiful voice. 'I should like to know he is got off safely. I cannot rest easy knowing this Leonards fellow is about.'

'I should like to go with him, Papa, if you will not mind my leaving you.'

'No! no, you must go with him, and see him safely to the train.'

'But it is ten minutes past six, Margaret,' said Frederick, with concern. 'It is very nearly dark. Shall you be alright returning on your own?'

'Oh! I am getting brave; I have been out walking far later.'

'But the station is quite set away from the busy commercial parts,' mused Mr Hale, hesitantly. 'I wonder, Isabel, might you go with them, and see Margaret home?' Isabel looked to brother and sister, who appeared anxious at the loss of privacy in their last precious moments together.

'I could follow just a little behind and wait at the end of the platform for you, perhaps? Then after Frederick is safely on the train, Margaret and I may journey home together?' Margaret smiled gratefully, and Frederick nodded his agreement, satisfying Mr Hale.

Now, as Isabel walked some ten paces or more behind brother and sister, she fretted all the while about the altercation she knew was to come, between the Hales and Leonards, whom she knew - in much the same way as she knew everything else which did not pertain to her - had taken a position as station porter. She could have attempted to suggest a different time of departure, but they were obliged to wait until darkness fell, yet could not leave so late as to prohibit Margaret from accompanying her brother. And of course, Isabel knew not Leonard's hours of work, for her reliable Gaskell had never shared that information with the reader. All she could do was endeavour to linger close to where she thought Leonards may spring from, in a hope that she could detain him from discovering Frederick's presence in Milton.

They reached Outward station, and all was dark and deserted; the train not being due for some twenty or so minutes. Margaret and Frederick made their way down beneath the elevated station platform, onto a cinder path which flanked the carriage-way, and - hidden from the station lamps in the darkness of that pathway - they said their goodbyes, for what both knew, may be the very last time. It was whilst they were speaking - stood up against a stile - that Margaret felt an approaching presence and tensed. Anxious that the dreaded Leonards may happen upon them, she was relieved when the horse she heard approaching, finally drew past them - directly along the stile - only to find that the horseman was none other than Mr Thornton. She bowed her head low - her heart pounding at the realisation that he had seen her brother, but gratified that of all the people local to Milton who it might have been, in was none other than her father's closest friend. Her bow was stiffly returned - a slight frown about the gentleman's face - and he passed on.

'Who was that, Margaret?' asked Frederick, once the ominous shadow of the rider had melted into the darkened night.

'That was Mr Thornton; you saw him before - when he called by for Papa.'

'Oh! so that is the fellow Isabel has a fondness for! My, he appears to be a frightful fellow; it's no wonder that our little Isabel likes him, for she has about her an unseemly pungency of character.'

'Frederick!' scolded Margaret. 'Isabel is very kind; she is only a little wilful and independent.'

'She is certainly not comely.' Seeing his sister's frown, 'Oh! to look upon, she is bewitching, but her manners - do not let her nurture that independent streak of your own, dear sister. You have it in just the right measure - Isabel, I fear, has too much of it. No! I see now why it is that she finds herself drawn to such an unprepossessing sort of fellow, for only one such as he could harness her. Let us go to the ticket office now; I don't wish to delay you in this darkness, my darling.' And so they made their way back up towards the platform, and Margaret left Frederick hidden in the shadows, whilst she presented herself proudly at the ticket office, purchasing the fare to Liverpool. She caught the curious glances of the station master and a few idle young men who had reclined languidly upon benches, whilst awaiting their train, and lifted her chin in her defiant and haughty manner, as though daring them to question her presence at that darkened station.

Isabel stood back, in an isolated corner of the platform, at the far end from the ticket office and the waiting passengers. She looked cautiously for Leonards, believing that he would appear not long before the train to Liverpool arrived, but when she heard a voice; the speaker sounded as though he was drunk - his speech somewhat slurred - and she knew, instinctively, that she had happened upon Leonards.

'Evenin', there, miss,' leered Leonards, his voice crowing from behind her. She looked up at him; yellowed-teeth and crooked nose, and noticed immediately the strong smell of alcohol and the dirty staining to his porter's uniform. He had about him, in his glazed eyes, a look she found unsettling, and she was not easily unsettled.

'I require no assistance from you, porter,' replied Isabel, in a deceptively even voice, as she attempted to portray the serenity of character she knew could be found in Margaret. 'As you can see, I have no luggage.'

'What's a little lady like you doin' travellin' alone and in the dark, then?'

'I am not alone; my companion is purchasing my ticket.'

'And you stand here in the dark,' said Leonards, with a low sneer, stepping closer. She tensed, her hands instinctively clenching into fists, as her heart began to race with nervous excitement.

'Have you no work to do, porter? You are bothering me,' came her haughty reply, but it was merely an outward appearance. Inwardly, she began to panic.

'I'm only thinkin' of your safety, miss - alone here, in the dark, with men about.' And he took another step closer. The threat was visible, and Isabel stepped quickly to one side, but Leonards caught her movement and grabbed at her. She felt his fingers curl about her arms and she tried to push him off, but his grip was cruel, biting into her skin, and so she could only shove at him roughly as she cried out in alarm. He tottered on his heel - head thick with drink - and fell backwards, tumbling off the edge of the platform and onto the track. Moving hastily away, Isabel left him lying in the darkness, and hurried towards Margaret and Frederick, just as the train was pulling into the station.

'Hurry! Hurry!' implored Isabel, in a panting breath, taking brother and sister by alarm. 'I believe I have seen Leonards - working as a porter. Frederick, you must go into the carriage at once and not be seen.' Isabel stood back, allowing the parting siblings the chance to whisper a few private words of farewell, before the carriage door was shut up, and the train pulled away, leaving Margaret and Isabel on the deserted platform. 'We must be off, Margaret. At once! We cannot be found here.' They hurried towards the exit, keeping to the shadows, as a man stood talking with the station master.

'Leonards has been drinking again. He'll lose his place this time; I'm sure of it. Claimed he had a fall - pushed by a woman - but if he did I say it was drink.' Margaret frowned at Isabel's flushed cheek, and took no time in discerning that she was the lady who had been implicated in the fall, and understanding her anxiety to leave, Margaret took out some coins from her reticule, and hailed quickly for a cab.

The fear which had coursed through Isabel was nothing like the tepid danger she'd sensed for herself during that great riot at Marlborough Mills. This night, she had felt a cursed fear unlike any she had experienced for some five years, and although she was glad that she had played her part in helping Frederick - in persuading the Hales to give up his calling past London to stop by Henry Lennox's chambers, and instead take the soonest ship from Liverpool (which could see him free of England within merely a few hours), and although she had stopped Leonards from coming upon Frederick by distracting him with her presence - she felt so very afraid that she took no satisfaction in it, and longed only for the soothing presence and calming strength of Mr Thornton.

Upon returning home, Margaret and Isabel sat with Mr Hale, and he nodded placidly as Margaret told him of Frederick's having got off safely. There was no allusion made to the altercation between Isabel and Leonards; Margaret thought the very name of the man would set her father to trembling, and Isabel had felt no inclination to clarify the matter of which Margaret had overheard from the station master. Instead the party of three sat about their tea, and spoke of the banal, whenever they felt that the silence had dragged on too long.

'I suppose Mr Bell will write to-morrow; to tell me if he may come. And if he does, I suppose he will arrive by evening,' said Mr Hale, at length.

'Yes, Papa. I suppose he shall,' encouraged Margaret.

'And if he cannot come, I think I will ask Mr Thornton to attend with me; I cannot go alone, Margaret. I am too weak with loss.'

'Oh! but Mr Thornton!' cried Margaret. 'Why must you ask him?' For although she had warmed to Mr Thornton, and no longer looked upon his as a tyrant, she still thought him a stranger who had no place in their private moment of grief. And nor was she heedless of the fact that she had not held her mother's confidence - held first by Frederick, then given up to Dixon. Her poor mamma had died just as it had been restored to its rightful place with Margaret, and she felt it a cruelty that she should have lost it just as her mother had grown to love her as she had wished. The thought now of her father sharing his grief with his favourite pupil, sparked in her the same jealousy his wife had felt - in those early days - upon hearing her husband voice so many of Mr Thornton's opinions, at every possible opportunity. 'No, Papa; if Mr Bell cannot come, then I shall come, do not ask Mr Thornton.'

'But dear, ladies do not go to funerals.'

'Woman of our class do not, because women cannot control their emotions as men do. Any women of society are ashamed to been seen crying but poor women go and show a woman's emotions and they do not feel any shame in it; nor does anyone judge them for their womanly sensibilities. No! If Mr Bell cannot go then I shall go with you and I will be strong; I shan't cry and make you despair of me.' Mr Hale looked unsure, for he felt his daughter would be a balm, but he also knew that she had struggled to stifle her tears this past day.

'If Mr Bell cannot come, then perhaps you and Isabel shall both come? Isabel,' said he, turning towards his goddaughter, 'you strike me as a woman of restrained emotion. You would be able to come with us if need be?'

'Yes; Isabel shall come, too. And Dixon, of course!' agreed Margaret, most readily.

But the morning brought news from Oxford; Mr Bell could not come because he had the gout. His letter was warm and feeling, and despite Mr Hale's disappointment that his friend could not come, his spirits were lifted by the tender condolences of his old friend, and his assurance that he would come to Milton again as soon as the gout would permit, for he claimed some unexpected business with his Milton agent - upon which he could not delay - and promised to bring with him a new acquaintance he thought Isabel would be very pleased to meet.

Mr Hale wavered in his determination not to ask Mr Thornton - despite having promised Margaret that he would not - but kept to his word upon seeing how determined Margaret was to accompany him. Thus, Mr Hale was escorted to his wife's funeral by both daughter and goddaughter (and of course, the loyal Dixon). He was warmed to see - upon Margaret's gentle tug of his sleeve - that Nicholas Higgins had come, with his daughter, Mary, and at the back of the church - hidden from view - stood Mr Thornton, who, although he had not been asked, had come, anyway.

The service was sparsely attended - much to Mr Hale's dismay, for he knew that had they remained in Helstone, the church would have been quite full - and once over, the small gathering of mourners filed from the church; Mr Hale supported by his daughter, with Dixon bustling beside her, solicitous for the wellbeing of her young Mistress and over-wrought Master.

'Miss Darrow,' said Mr Thornton, his voice low and soft as he stepped out from the recesses to greet her.

'Mr Thornton,' acknowledged Isabel; she was not surprised to see him; she had known he would come.

'I wonder if you might tell me how the family gets on?'

'Mr Hale is brought very low; he struggles in his grief. I should think - if you can spare the time - that a visit from you would do him much good.' Mr Thornton nodded in understanding, then asked cautiously after Miss Hale. 'She bares up - she is strong - but I am sure when she is alone she is quite tearful; she would not like her father to see her grief if she could help it; nor me, I should think.'

'And you?' asked Mr Thornton, his voice tight with repressed emotion.

'Mrs Hale was not my mother. I hardly think my feelings on the matter signify.'

'But she was the closest person you have to a mother?' prompted Mr Thornton, gently.

'Perhaps - but very far from it, still. Besides, we were not close, especially. I don't think she approved of me. Her passing is very sad, of course, but I always think it saddest for those left behind, than those who have moved on. My heart aches for Mr Hale and Margaret.'

'And what of Mr - Dickinson, was it?' asked Mr Thornton; irritated by her unemotional response. He had thought she might cry a little, or have a slight tremble to her voice, but she spoke coldly, as though death was nothing to her. If he had been impartial, he would have said she spoke of death as any doctor did, but he was not impartial; he had not been impartial since the moment he fell in love with her, and he could not be impartial, knowing that a gentleman had stayed lately with the Hales; a gentleman purported to have been a friend or relative of Miss Darrow's.

'A Mr Dickinson?' asked Isabel, in surprise. She frowned and narrowed her eyes at him assessingly. 'I suppose you heard of such a man from Dr Donaldson? That doctor is prone to gossip!'

'You did not answer my question,' replied Mr Thornton.

'There was no Mr Dickinson, sir.' Vexed by her taciturn response, he could only offer that he supposed he might be permitted to call upon Mr Hale the day after to-morrow. 'I should think he will be very pleased to see you, sir.'

'And if I may, might I beg of your time to-morrow; I have something I wish to show you; to ask of you.' Seeing her brows lift in surprise, he raised his stand to still her. 'Fear not, Miss Darrow; it is a business proposition - that is all.' And at his turn of speech, Isabel could not help but feel her lips tug upwards at the corners - quite an inappropriate expression for the doorstep of a church, just following a funeral! - but she could not help it, such a turn of phrase held quite delicious connotations, albeit for another.

'Very well. I should be happy to speak with you.'

'Might you be able to call at the mill house to-morrow at eleven o'clock?' Dreading a meeting with his mother, Isabel could only offer a tight smile and lower her head in acquiescence. Mr Thornton tipped his hat - well gratified - and begged of her to pass on his condolences and best wishes to father and daughter, before strolling off with long strides, determined not to think on her again that day.